


Catalyst

by Elycien



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: (not by Dukat), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dubious Consent, Established Relationship, Humiliation, M/M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Slavery, Weyoun 6 is alive also, Ziyal is alive
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-03-22 05:37:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13757412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elycien/pseuds/Elycien
Summary: Frustrated by Weyoun's failures, the Founder removes him from his role as ambassador and gives him to Gul Dukat as a slave. Weyoun and Dukat's already thorny relationship is about to get far more complicated, forcing both of them to question what exactly they mean to one another.





	1. Chapter 1

It should have been an ordinary briefing with the Founder, one of their private meetings where the Cardassian personnel are absent. Instead, with very little warning, Weyoun’s life is over.

He hasn’t even had a chance to say a word before she speaks, surveying him severely. “I’m not pleased with your performance, Weyoun.” 

It’s amazing how she can shake him to his core with so few words, delivered so calmly. Weyoun is still half-bowed before her in the posture of supplication, his arms outstretched, and now he wonders if she can see his hands trembling. He bows his head a fraction lower, his eyes wide. “Forgive me, Founder. I am doing all I can to rectify my mistakes, I assure you--”

She raises a hand and he falls silent instantly, frozen, staring at the floor. “I know you are. However, I am not convinced you’re capable of repairing the damage. When your predecessor was deemed defective, I worried that the Weyoun line was beginning to deteriorate.” He flinches at the mention of the defective clone, hoping she won’t notice. “And when you failed to find and terminate him, coupled with the recent losses we’ve suffered on the Romulan front, I found that my suspicions were correct.”

Weyoun drops to his knees. He can’t help it. He has nothing left to lose. “I live to serve, Founder - please, allow me another chance…”

Is there pity in her eyes, or only contempt? He can’t tell. The subtleties of Solid facial expressions are, after all, beneath her. “It’s out of the question. Your replacement has already received her orders.” She shakes her head. “I regret that this had to happen. You served us faithfully for many lifetimes, Weyoun.”

It feels as if all the air has been sucked out of the room. He knows what’s coming next. Hand shaking, he starts to reach up toward the implant behind his ear. “Please…”

“I did not order you to self-terminate,” the Founder says sharply, and Weyoun’s head jerks up.

“Founder?” he says, faltering.

“Your service to us is over,” the Founder says, and it hits him like a kick to the gut to hear it so bluntly. “As of now, you are stripped of your rank and status within the Dominion and will be transferred to the possession of Gul Dukat.”

Weyoun is certain he’s misheard. “Gul… Dukat?”

“Ordinarily, of course, you would be terminated, but I’m well aware that the Gul has grown fond of you, and I think your rapport could still prove useful in keeping him loyal. I’m sure you’re aware of the risk he poses now that his daughter has aligned herself with the Federation.”

“Yes… of course,” Weyoun murmurs, his heart pounding. “But I--”

She takes a step closer to him, hooks a finger under his chin and tilts his head back to study his face. He shivers. “ _You_ are his reward for his faithful service to the Dominion, Weyoun. For all intents and purposes, you are his property. I expect you to be perfectly obedient. Keep him content. And do not make me regret letting you live. Do you understand?”

This situation is unheard of. She must be truly desperate, to be courting the Cardassian leader’s favor like this. In all his lifetimes, Weyoun has never heard of a Vorta being demoted in this fashion - if they are deemed unworthy to serve the Dominion properly, they are executed. That is the order of things, and even in his proudest moments Weyoun has never once considered himself exempt. He’s always known execution, the termination of his line, was a possibility.

Except he’s not being executed. He should be grateful.

(He’s not.)

“I… I understand, Founder,” he says, his voice coming out hoarse and shaky. “I live to serve.”

“Yes, you do,” she agrees. She lets him go and looks up at her Jem’Hadar guards, who have been standing by silent and stone-faced, showing no reaction to the Vorta’s humiliation. “Escort the prisoner to Gul Dukat’s quarters,” she tells them. “Make sure he understands the situation.”

“Yes, Founder.” They converge on Weyoun and he notices with a sick flip of his stomach that one of them’s holding a pair of cuffs. He smiles thinly.

“That won’t be necessary,” he says. “I’ll come quietly.”

One of the Jem’Hadar glances at him and for the first time he can see a trace of expression on the soldier’s face, a hint of contempt. “You do not give the orders, Vorta,” he says, and Weyoun can see how it must please him to be able to say that. Biting back a sharp response, he lowers his head and lets them cuff him. Even if he were inclined to resist, they’re perfectly capable of escorting him without restraints. No, this is about appearances, about letting Dukat and the rest of Central Command see that his status is gone. 

As they lead him away he glances over his shoulder to catch one last glimpse of the Founder before the door closes. She’s not looking at him.

\----

In the privacy of his quarters, Dukat takes the cuffs off and guides Weyoun to a chair. He’s accepted this new situation with little outward reaction, and the Vorta can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking. If he’s pleased, or angry, or both.

Right now, Weyoun doesn’t feel anything at all. He sits there, numb, as Dukat moves around his quarters. Getting them ready to house an additional occupant, he supposes. He wonders if he’ll be sharing Dukat’s bed, as he has on the nights he’s spent here, or if he’ll be given his own separate sleeping arrangements until the Gul wants him. It’s not really up to him either way.

“Well, it could be worse,” Dukat says at length behind him. Weyoun can hear him rummaging through a drawer, and doesn't turn around to look. 

“Mm.” It’s true, he supposes. He could be dead,  _ terminated _ , his clones euthanized in their gestation chambers before they can ever awaken. But the thought of that alternative is scant comfort. 

“At least we no longer need to hide our relationship,” Dukat continues, reasonably, and Weyoun feels a horrible urge to laugh out loud. He doesn't, because Dukat has never taken kindly to being the butt of a joke, but the desire is there. Dukat's idea of a secret relationship is… charming, to put it nicely.  _ Half of Central Command knows you’re sleeping with me, and the only reason the rest haven’t found out is that they don’t care.  _ It’s never bothered him before. Keeping Dukat happy, making him believe he had the Dominion ambassador wrapped around his little finger - he’d been doing his job, and doing it well. But now--

“Ah, here it is,” Dukat says, and walks back over to him. Weyoun looks up and sees that he’s holding a collar made of pale purple leather, its surface studded with a few small, glittering gems. He wonders how long Dukat has had that, how he originally intended to use it. There’s no doubt in his mind it was always meant for him.

The Cardassian drops to one knee behind him and fastens the collar around Weyoun’s neck, as tenderly as if he is draping his lover’s neck with diamonds. Perhaps, in his mind, that’s what he’s doing. He reaches out to take hold of Weyoun’s chin, gently turning the Vorta’s face toward him. “There now,” he says gently. “That’s not so bad, is it? You’re  _ safe _ now. The Founder will be satisfied that I am following the terms of our agreement, and no one else will touch you if you’re under my protection.”

The word sends a jolt through Weyoun, and his eyes narrow before he can stop himself. “Your  _ agreement?”  _ he hisses. “You… you  _ knew?” _

Dukat stares at him, puzzled. “I thought you were aware,” he says. “I didn’t want her to replace you, not when we’ve built such a…  _ productive _ working relationship. Unfortunately, she was adamant, but I was at least able to convince her to spare your life. It came with certain… conditions.” He cocks his head, studying Weyoun’s face, looking infuriatingly concerned. “I thought you’d be pleased.”

Weyoun swallows, feeling the pressure of the collar against his throat, and tries to douse as much of his anger as he can. He’s only gotten this far with Dukat by hiding the bulk of his irritation and contempt, masking it in flattery, smothering it with shows of submission. But it’s not enough this time. “What have you  _ done?” _ he whispers. “I… I could have had a clean death. An appropriate end to my distinguished service record. Instead I- I’m supposed to become your  _ pet, _ and you expect me to be  _ pleased?” _

He reaches for the collar but Dukat catches his wrist with one hand, leaning forward to loom over the smaller man. Instinctively Weyoun finds himself shrinking back. “I did what I had to in order to keep you alive,” Dukat growls, enunciating every word with biting clarity. “Isn’t that enough? Isn’t this a small price to pay for your  _ life? _ ”

Weyoun finds himself averting his eyes from Dukat’s, lowering them in a show of submission that - this time - might actually be genuine. He doesn’t know anymore. “The Dominion  _ was _ my life,” he whispers, his voice shaking.

“And you can continue to serve the Dominion, here, at my side,” Dukat says, earnest, almost desperate. “As long as the  _ Founder _ is convinced you’re being put in your place, what does it matter if you continue to advise me in private? This doesn’t have to change anything between us.” He shifts his grip from Weyoun’s wrist to his hand, clasping it tightly. “I don’t want you to be afraid of me, Weyoun. I intend to protect you. You have my word.”

_ Everything I ever worked for is taken from me, and you call that protection? You expect me to be happy? _ This time, with Dukat so close, still tightly gripping his hand, Weyoun manages to swallow back the anger. Instead he tilts his head toward Dukat, letting an expression of gentle concern form on his face. “But I’m not your advisor any longer, Dukat,” he says softly. “I  _ belong _ to you.”

Dukat smiles, reaching up to smooth back the hair over Weyoun’s ear. “Didn’t you already?” he murmurs, his voice lowering. 

_ No, _ he wants to snap, _ because that was a  _ game, _ and now my life is in your hands, and you don’t seem capable of understanding the difference!  _ Instead he curves his lips into a teasing smile, lowering his lashes, and reaches up to trail his fingers down along the scales on Dukat’s neck. “Of course,” he whispers, and braces himself, and lets Dukat kiss him.


	2. Chapter 2

It seems like there are a million little things that have to be done to disengage Weyoun from his position as Dominion ambassador, and it amazes him how quickly they’re checked off the list, his life and career reduced to a set of loose ends neatly tied up or handed off. One of the last things to be done is turn in his uniform, and while he understands the necessity of the order - a slave cannot be seen dressed like one of the Dominion’s top personnel - it’s still one of the things that stings the most. He doesn’t _have_ any clothes that weren’t requisitioned from the diplomatic corps, which means he has to start from scratch.

“I told you, you don’t have to worry,” Dukat tells him. “I’ll take care of you. Wait right there, I’ll be right back.”

He’s left standing alone in front of the mirror in Dukat’s bedroom, taking one final look at himself before he takes his uniform off. It’s the last time he’ll look anything like the diplomat he was designed to be. Almost, anyway. There’s still the collar - Dukat hasn’t let him take it off since he first put it on. He lifts his hand to his throat, tracing the jewel-studded surface. Genuine polished seaglass, Dukat had told him proudly, quite difficult to find on Cardassia Prime. As if it made any difference to him.

He finishes undressing and is standing there naked when Dukat returns, holding a bundle of fabric in his arms. Dukat walks up behind him and rests his chin on top of Weyoun’s head, grasping the Vorta’s bare hip with one hand as he studies him in the mirror. “You look beautiful,” he murmurs.

Weyoun’s not in the mood for flattery. He pulls away and turns to face Dukat. “Did you find me some new clothes?”

Dukat beams, and shows him what he brought. It’s a skimpy, gauzy thing that looks like it will leave little to the imagination, with fluttering layers of silk strategically placed to draw attention to exposed swathes of skin. He holds it up against Weyoun and turns the Vorta around to face the mirror again. “What do you think?”

Weyoun shoots him a furious glare over his shoulder. “You can’t possibly expect me to wear… _that._ ”

Dukat raises a brow-ridge. “It’s appropriate for a slave, isn’t it? And you’ll look good in it. No one will question why I keep you at my side if they see you looking like that.”

Weyoun’s eyes narrow but he says nothing, takes the clothes from Dukat and struggles into them. The garment is more form-fitting than it first appears and barely hides anything, the draping layers of sheer silk doing more to show off his body than obscure it. It leaves his neck and collarbones exposed, his legs mostly bare, and most uncomfortable of all exposes the sensitive ridged hollow in the center of his chest. It’s an incredibly vulnerable part of Vorta anatomy, an organ associated with telekinesis that is vestigial in most lines, and baring it is somewhat taboo. Weyoun can’t help but wonder what the next Dominion ambassador is going to think, seeing him like this. He privately hopes it isn’t anyone he knows.

Dukat seems oblivious to his discomfort, an affectionate smile on his face as he looks over Weyoun’s body. “I’m glad it fits,” he says. “I had it tailored, not replicated. And I insisted the tailor use genuine Andorian silk. I remember how much you liked the texture of the jacket I wore for Legate Prell’s reception.”

“It is… soft,” Weyoun admits. “Comfortable.” Dukat’s almost selective capacity for thoughtfulness is maddening. “I… suppose I can’t talk you out of this.”

Dukat puts an arm around him. “You’ll get used to it,” he says warmly. “And you look stunning. Now, shall we go?”

Weyoun looks startled. “Go _where?_ ”

“To greet the new ambassador from the Dominion, of course,” Dukat says, and Weyoun’s heart sinks. “Her ship arrives today, didn’t you know?”

Weyoun’s throat clenches. “I’m only a slave, Dukat,” he says quietly. “Why would I need to know?”

\----

The reactions to his new appearance would have almost been amusing if it wasn’t for the circumstances. Damar in particular barely seems to know where to look, his scales darkening as his eyes are drawn to Weyoun’s neck and then his legs before making himself look away entirely.

He’s dreading the Founder’s reaction, but she doesn’t look at him at all, her gaze focused solely on Dukat as she greets him as if Weyoun isn’t even there. Somehow, that’s worse.

They’ve assembled at the state shipyards near Central Command headquarters - Dukat, his officers, and the Founder, flanked by several of the Jem’Hadar Firsts assigned to her safety. Weyoun is keenly aware of how out of place he feels, standing close by Dukat’s side as his consort instead of beside the Founder where he’d normally be placed for a diplomatic occasion. His discomfort only grows as Dukat slips an arm around his waist, glancing down at him with a bracing smile. Weakly, Weyoun tries to smile back. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

He’s staring down at the ground when the ambassador disembarks, and of course she approaches the Founder first, is probably bowing to her although Weyoun doesn’t bother to look. “Founder, it is an honor to be in your presence,” the ambassador says respectfully, and Weyoun freezes. He knows that voice.

“Thank you, Kilana,” the Founder responds gravely. “I know you will serve us well.”

Dukat steps forward to greet her, and Weyoun’s head jerks up to look at her at last. Kilana’s smiling, as pretty and pleasant and poised as ever, and Weyoun suddenly, viciously wishes he was dead. Better that than standing here looking like this, letting her get a good look at his disgrace. Out of all the potential candidates in the diplomatic corps, Kilana is the last one he’d want to see him like this. Kilana, who’d been his friend and then his lover and then - abruptly - a distant acquaintance after the death of Kilana Three had ended her relationship with Weyoun Two. The fallout had been severe for both of them, landing Weyoun a lowly field assignment for two lifetimes and ending Kilana’s third life entirely. Everyone had known the “accident” was simply an excuse to save her the disgrace of an official termination. Now, all of five lifetimes removed from the intensity of their predecessors’ relationship, Weyoun still feels vague fondness toward her. It’s unsettling. Even in the best of times he’d prefer to avoid her - here, _now_ , her presence is far worse than Damar’s uncomfortable, lascivious glances.

He wonders if the Founder did this on purpose. But it’s probably blasphemous to imagine her being this petty.

Dukat introduces himself using that jovial tone of voice that he employs when he’s trying to get someone to like him, that he used to use on Weyoun before they became closer and his voice started dropping into a more seductive register. Kilana laughs politely and nods to him. “Please, call me Kilana,” she says warmly, as if she’s very much hoping they will be friends, though Weyoun knows her well enough to know she uses that tone with everyone. Dukat is precisely the kind of person it works on best, even if he knows how the Vorta work by now. It won’t stop him from being flattered.

Kilana’s eyes flick briefly in Weyoun’s direction, meeting his gaze over Dukat’s shoulder, and while she is far too experienced to let any reaction show on her face Weyoun feels his skin crawl with humiliation. It takes an effort to remain still and not cringe from her, try to hide his exposed chest ridges with his hand. Instead he stands straight, pretends he isn’t bothered, pretends nothing has changed since the last time they met. He’s used to masking his more unpleasant emotions when they aren’t useful to him, but he’s not sure how long he can keep this up.

Unfortunately, the occasion does not stop at greeting Kilana; there’s a tour of the Central Command complex, and then she and the Vorta officials who arrived with her will be shown to their quarters, and then a state dinner hosted by Dukat in the evening. Weyoun is already wishing Dukat hadn’t brought him, and it’s far from over. At least the Founder departs after receiving homage from the arriving Vorta, retiring to her quarters. She doesn’t look at Weyoun once, and he can’t tell if he is relieved or heartbroken.

Introductions are made between the Vorta entourage and Dukat’s officers; to Weyoun’s embarrassment Dukat includes him as well, putting his arm around his shoulders and euphemistically introducing him as “My companion, Weyoun.” Kilana graces him with one of her polite, distant smiles.

“Yes, we’ve met,” she says, before turning away to speak with one of the guls. Weyoun swallows back a lump in his throat. No matter what Dukat may think, he does not belong here any longer, and she knows that.

Dukat takes his arm as they walk back to the Central Command complex, either oblivious or wilfully blind to the fact that Weyoun has no real place in this gathering. His primary responsibility is to the new arrivals, so he has no attention to spare for his “companion.” Weyoun listens silently as Dukat expounds at length on the facilities they’re passing through; he’s in his element, the center of attention. As he talks, Weyoun is glancing over the rest of the newly arrived Vorta, not many of whom he knows personally, though he has read most of their personnel profiles before. With a pang, he realizes that Dukat probably still isn’t cleared to know the real reason why most of them are scientists and doctors, the desperate, top secret attempts to find a cure for the disease ravaging the Founders. Kilana probably does, by now. It hurts that he’s no longer in any position to do anything about it.

One of the scientists asks a question about one of the displays in the operations room, and Dukat lets go of Weyoun to go answer him. Kilana takes advantage of the distraction to move closer to Weyoun, smoothly drawing him aside for as private a conversation as they can manage.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmurs. “When I heard what was happening, I couldn’t believe it. I thought they would simply terminate you.”

“As did I,” Weyoun says quietly. “But, well.” He tries to smile. “The Founders are merciful.”

“Yes,” Kilana agrees, looking him over now, taking in his scant clothing and the collar around his neck, and Weyoun’s eyes drop, his cheeks and eartips flushing purple with shame. “He’s good to you?” she continues, tearing her eyes away to glance over at Dukat, who’s still waxing poetic about Cardassian innovation to his polite audience of Dominion scientists. “Your owner?”

Weyoun glances at him too, his expression softening in spite of himself. “So far,” he murmurs, noncommittal. When he looks away Kilana’s watching him again, and there’s an intensely sympathetic look in her eyes. Suddenly more uncomfortable than ever, Weyoun wraps his arms around himself, partially hiding his exposed chest ridges from view. “I am… sorry to leave my work unfinished,” he says. “But I know it will be in good hands with you, Kilana.”

Kilana nods. “Thank you,” she says, warm but distant as ever. “There is no need for you to worry. The Dominion endures.”

Weyoun inclines his head. “As it always has,” he agrees. “And I am encouraged to see your choices of personnel - I had been thinking myself that Leyan’s research would make him a natural fit for some of the, ah, sensitive work being carried out here--”

“That work is no longer any of your concern,” Kilana says, suddenly sharp. It’s as cold as he’s ever heard her, and Weyoun finds himself recoiling. “I’m sure you’re aware of our security concerns, and you no longer have any clearance to speak of.”

“Of- of course, though under the circumstances…”

“Under the circumstances, I shouldn’t even be speaking to you at all,” Kilana says, a slight tremor in her voice. It’s so subtle that only Vorta hearing and several lifetimes of familiarity allows Weyoun to detect it, but she is upset behind her calm facade. “We are not colleagues, Weyoun. You’re not a member of the diplomatic corps. You’re not even a citizen of the Dominion. The sooner you accept that, the easier it’s going to be for you.”

Stung, Weyoun takes a step back and lowers his head. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to overstep.”

Kilana shakes her head. “No, I’m sorry, I truly didn’t mean to make this difficult for you.” She sighs. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have approached you. This is a… a highly irregular situation. I imagine it will take some time for protocol to become clear.” She gives him that look again, not unfriendly but pitying, and though they are about the same height Weyoun feels unaccountably small. “Please don’t worry about the work you’ve left behind. You don’t need to worry about diplomatic matters any longer. Obey Dukat, follow the path the Founders have laid out for you. You will adjust.”

If this is the path the Founders have laid out for him, it’s a path that leads nowhere. She has to know that as well as he does. Weyoun swallows, feels the collar pressing into his throat. “Of course,” he says stiffly. “I know my place, as I’m sure you do, Kilana.”

“Ambassador,” she corrects him gently.

He lowers his head again, clasping his hands behind his back in submission. “Ambassador.”

A hand comes down heavily on his shoulder, and Weyoun jumps, but it’s only Dukat, smiling thinly at Kilana beside him. “Is there a problem, Ambassador Kilana?”

“Oh, no, I was merely greeting your… companion,” Kilana says, suddenly all smiles again. “I hope you don’t mind. He and I were old friends. I trust you’re finding him satisfactory?”

There’s an odd look on Dukat’s face, but it still at least resembles a smile. He squeezes Weyoun’s shoulder more tightly. “Satisfactory,” he echos. “Yes. I have no complaints. Shall we continue your tour?”

“By all means,” Kilana says, beaming.

Dukat walks slowly, tucking an arm around Weyoun’s slim waist, and waits until Kilana is engaged in conversation with one of the guls before speaking in a low voice. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Weyoun murmurs, leaning against Dukat as they walk. “Everything is fine.”

\----

Dukat strips off the outer layer of his armor as soon as he steps into the privacy of his quarters, arching his back in an elaborate stretch. Diplomatic occasions like this are always long and tiresome, even though the cheerful, servile Vorta are always so much more eager to please than the cantankerous Cardassian dignitaries Dukat is used to dealing with. Dinner felt particularly pointless, after what Weyoun once told him about his people’s weak sense of taste. Still, he feels it all went about as smoothly as could be expected. The transition of power from one ambassador to the next feels almost seamless, one Vorta slipping neatly into the space another left behind. And no one, even the Founder, seems to have caught on that the change is largely for show. 

“Well, I think that went well,” he says cheerfully, heading over to the replicator to get himself a drink. To his slight surprise Weyoun hasn’t really moved since they entered their quarters, standing beside the door with his hands clasped behind his back and an uncertain look on his face. It’s only when he’s addressed directly that he looks up, watching Dukat carefully.

“Yes, I suppose it did,” Weyoun says, slow and cautious. “Ambassador Kilana is… very capable. You’ll have no difficulties with her.”

The smile fades from Dukat’s face. “Kilana,” he mutters. “Yes.” Drink in hand, he glances at Weyoun. “Do you want anything?”

“No, thank you.”

“Suit yourself.” Dukat makes his way over to the sofa, sprawling out on it and propping his feet up on the coffee table. “You’ve been awfully quiet since we got back. Don’t you have anything to say?”

Weyoun looks almost startled. “Like what?”

“Anything!” Dukat spreads his hands, exasperated. “Your thoughts, your advice - you never held back before. I want your _guidance,_ Weyoun.”

Weyoun’s eyes flick down again. “That’s not really my place.”

“Nonsense,” Dukat says promptly. “Your place is at my side, as it always was.” He pats the sofa cushion beside him. “Come, sit with me. I want your impressions of the new delegates.”

Slowly Weyoun walks over to sit beside him. Dukat’s not sure if he’s imagining the careful, measured pace of the Vorta’s gait, somehow different from the easy grace with which he carried himself before.

“Any information you require, I’m certain Ambassador Kilana could--”

“Stop it,” Dukat says sharply, and Weyoun flinches, finally looks up to meet Dukat’s gaze with wide eyes. “Why are you so determined to make excuses for her? After the way she treated you…”

“She said nothing that wasn’t true,” Weyoun protests, weakly.

Dukat shakes his head irritably. “She disrespected you. I won’t tolerate it. If she speaks to you like that again--”

Weyoun blanches, reaches out to grab Dukat’s arm. “Don’t say anything,” he says softly. “Please. You will only make it worse. I’ll - I’ll stay out of her way in the future, that’s all.”

“Hmm.” Dukat narrows his eyes, unsatisfied with all of this. Weyoun is so uncharacteristically docile, simply rolling over and accepting the ambassador’s harsh treatment. “I suppose she’s a rival of yours in the diplomatic corps? Enjoying the chance to gloat?”

Weyoun laughs unexpectedly, humorlessly. “Worse than that, I’m afraid. She was my lover. Oh, it was several lifetimes ago,” he adds, seeing Dukat’s surprise before the Cardassian can manage to voice it. “But such things are… unusual, between Vorta. Discouraged. Her death put a stop to it, in the end. It has been a very long time since we spoke to one another.”

_Put a stop to it._ It’s an odd way to phrase the end of a relationship, even for Vorta, for whom death is not quite an end. Still, the implications hit Dukat in the gut. To imagine Naprem back from the dead, only to treat him as dismissively as Kilana treated Weyoun-- he tentatively puts a hand on Weyoun’s shoulder, stroking it lightly with his thumb. “I’m… sorry,” he says carefully.

Weyoun smiles reflexively, shakes his head. “As I said… it was a long time ago. It is nothing to grieve over.”

Something’s still bothering him, though, and it’s there in the set of his face, the way he still seems to find it hard to meet Dukat’s eyes for long. On impulse, Dukat leans forward, takes Weyoun’s chin in his hand to tilt his face up, and kisses him. At first Weyoun tenses up, surprised, but then he relaxes and begins to reciprocate, one hand drifting up to stroke Dukat’s neck. Dukat makes a pleased rumble into his mouth, slightly mollified. This, at least, is the same.

When he pulls back, one of his hands is in Weyoun’s hair, and he keeps it there, gently threading his fingers through the tight curls. “I don’t give a damn about Kilana,” he says, his voice a low rumble, almost a growl. “ _You’re_ my advisor. You’re who I want.”

Weyoun hesitates, but at least this time he manages to hold Dukat’s gaze, wide purple eyes staring into his. “She can’t know… that you speak to me about these things, Skrain…”

The sound of his given name sends a shiver of pleasure down Dukat’s spine; Weyoun so seldom uses it. “ _She won’t._ ” He leans in to kiss him again and this time Weyoun’s far more responsive, hungry even, moving closer to press his body against Dukat’s. Both hands are on Dukat’s neck now, the Vorta’s nimble fingers expertly massaging his scales in a way that leaves Dukat breathless. He returns the favor by pressing his fingers against the hollow in the middle of the Vorta’s chest, rubbing up and down his ridges with firm pressure, and Dukat is rewarded by a startled little moan.

Weyoun jerks back, but not far, nearly nose-to-nose with Dukat and panting. His hands don’t move. “May I take this off?” he says, almost a whisper. Dukat nods. They break apart enough for Weyoun to struggle out of his silky garment, for Dukat to strip off his undershirt and push his pants down, then they’re pressed together again. Dukat easily pins the Vorta’s warm little body beneath him on the couch and kisses his chest, mouthing at a nipple and then running his tongue over Weyoun’s chest ridges. Weyoun gasps and moans, pleasingly vocal as ever, arching his chest up against Dukat’s mouth greedily. His fingers continue their delicate exploration of Dukat’s scales as he hooks his legs up around Dukat’s waist, slick tendrils and a sinuous, slender cock starting to unfurl from his genital slit as his body responds to Dukat’s deft attentions. The searching, grasping tendrils tease at Dukat’s cloaca and his newly everted cock, and Dukat wastes no time pushing inside the Vorta’s slit once it’s opened enough to admit him. Weyoun cries out, bucks his hips and wraps his arms tightly around Dukat’s neck, holding him close as the Cardassian’s thrusts increase in intensity.

When they’ve finished Dukat can’t help holding Weyoun a while longer, arms wrapped securely around him as his fingers lazily splay out over the Vorta’s smooth skin. Weyoun tucks his face into Dukat’s neck, gasping as his breathing steadies. The way he trembles, just slightly… Dukat wants to believe it’s exhaustion, knows it’s not. Weyoun is scared.

“I’ll take care of you,” he whispers into Weyoun’s ear, one hand curling protectively around the back of his neck, over the collar. “I promise. I _promise._ ”

Weyoun shudders once and then lies still. “I know,” he breathes, warm breath against Dukat’s neck. “I know.”


End file.
